


Of the Rising Sun and Falling Snow

by frogo



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hannibal is not helping at all, Happy Ending, M/M, That weird regency era that’s not mideval and pre-1900s, Will is so confused, it all sorta works out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:21:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogo/pseuds/frogo
Summary: Grateful, he was. Yes, indeed, he was grateful, surely. To be rid of the odd Nobleman with his hair that shone gold like the sun, his face like that of bright rays piercing through the Craftsman’s frosty disposition. The Craftsman thinks that when the sun finally does return to melt the snow of winter, he will be disappointed that it does not have hounds abound and warm laughs that heat him through to the core.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Of the Rising Sun and Falling Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal’s character is heavily inspired by Frau Gauden, a mythological noblewoman hunter of the night who was cursed to an eternal hunt when she and her 24 daughters collectively came to the conclusion that to hunt is truly heaven, or better than it. Her daughters were turned into wolves or hounds (although Hannibal’s hounds are definitely **not** his daughters, don’t worry), and they are at their strongest/haunt the most when it is winter. Primarily the 12 days leading to Christmas and New Year’s eve. Hence why I’m posting this seasonally.
> 
> (This next description has some spoilers for the fic, so if you don’t want to read that, you can skip down to the fic itself. Have a good read!)
> 
> Will’s character is inspired by the prominent myth where Frau Gauden damages her chariot, and implores the help of local craftsmen, often waking them in the middle of the night and rewarding them with wood shavings or the dung of her hounds. Those who repair her chariot are often too tired to care and go to sleep only to wake and find it’s turned to pure gold.
> 
> This story mostly follows that mythos format to a T. But I was absolutely not going to try and write Will being okay with picking up dog poop to bring home, no matter the era.
> 
> Anyways, now that that’s out of the way, I sincerely hope you enjoy this weird holiday thing that came out of nowhere.
> 
> 💖

The bitter chill that sweeps with the winter winds partly blinds the craftsman, and he pulls his collar higher towards himself. Though it does little good, his clothes are thin and old, for he lives by himself, no wife or daughter to knit him socks and coats. He is inept himself in such tasks, his skills lie in labor and craftsmanship, as his title implies. He knows only enough to sew patches onto the knees and creases of his clothes and even then he pricks and scrapes the tips of his fingers, with tiny drops of blood marking his efforts. 

He does not know what devilish impulse drew him to venture out of the warmth of his bed, though the visitor at his door knocked so loudly as to raise himself and his dog from slumber. The dog came to him just this year past, and whines and whimpers if he is not near. He took pity upon the shivering creature upon his doorstep, and the lonely pit inside himself craved some company too, he supposes. Now a creature of an altogether different kind lurks upon his doorstep on this eve of the New Year, though he feels nothing akin to pity as he did the kindly pup.

The man, one of nobility it would seem, if his cravat and rich leathers were of any credence, loomed not three steps from the enclose of his porch. The Craftsman thought this peculiar, as the winds had picked up since the sun set that night and snow whipped about the both of them. Surely the small shelter his porch enclosure offered would be better than the bitter pains of this cold winter. Though, the Craftsman lent no more thought to the inner workings of the Nobleman’s mind, his machinations beyond him and he felt no inclination to analyze them, or him, further. 

He averted his gaze from the Nobleman, and when he looked upon the ground surrounding his feet he saw hounds and dogs innumerable clamoring and shivering about his legs. Startled, he quickly beckoned the strange man inside as well as his companions. They were similar in coat color and demeanor to his own dog, and he could not stand to see them shivering and whimpering in the deep snow. How foolish the man must be, to bring so many poor dogs with him into the winter chill. 

The Nobleman glided into his small cottage, with the air and grace of one who seemed to float above the trivialities of peasant men like the Craftsman. 

He did not like it.

Now, in the flickering light of hastily lit candles, the Craftsman counts fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eight-.

23 hounds did the Nobleman have.

Surely this man was part of a hunt, not so many wiry snapping creatures would the man need to travel with for leisure. But what would drive a man such as this to hunt in the middle of the night, with a storm upon them? And what of any other party members?

Attention arrested once more when the poor things began scraping his floors and nosing his hands, he hastily turns to the fire and ducks to reach the wood besides it. The Craftsman grasps blindly upon the mantle for his flint and stone without standing properly, and the Nobleman crosses the room in long strides before retrieving it and handing them to him. Startled, the Craftsman goes to stand quickly, forgetting he has his head shoved deep into his fireplace and makes an utter fool of himself when he hits his head and lands upon his backside in front of a cold fireplace, inquiring snouts, and his esteemed guest.

Face a burning shade of red, his silent quest helps him up and guides him to the sitting chair by the fireplace. 

“I am terrible sorry, I have forgotten myself and my manners in my haste and made an utter fool of myself, good sir” He manages.

The Nobleman seems to find his embarrassment amusing, as he chuckles warmly. The Craftsman is surprised to find that he is not offended by it. 

“No, you have made no fool of yourself sir. In fact it is I who may be the fool, as I have encroached upon your hospitality this late in the night with my companions with but a word of thanks or explanation.”

During his response the Nobleman had turned and began the task of lighting his hearth fire, with much more grace and poise than the Craftsman possessed. Here, he bends at his waist, retrieving logs from beside the stone fireplace. There, he strikes once, twice, and the flame alights. The Craftsman is captivated by his movements, finding it much easier to focus on the dexterous motion of his wide hands than the kind tone of his words that is so unfmiliar to him. He has a soft accent, one that he had never heard before, but has so quickly become enchanted with that he will look back upon this night and shake with alarm at how he longs to hear it once more. 

Once the fire is lit, the dogs yip and trample over each other to roll on the rug he keeps by it and pile upon one another in their playful nature. The Craftsman can spot his own amongst the hounds, but he is not entirely sure as they have quickly evolved into an amorphous mountain of wagging tails and happy snouts. 

Finally registering the words of his guest, the flame in his cheeks is re ignited and challenges the heat of the fire. The Nobleman sits across him, once he safely treks across the hazardous wasteland that the dogs have created, in the rickety chair that once creaked under the weight of the Craftsman’s father. He almost goes to offer his own plush seat, but thinks it apt that he suffer, if only slightly, for dragging his dogs into the cold. 

“I suppose you deserve an explanation. You see, I had drove my carriage into the night and came upon a cross roads, but my hounds had crowded the path so thoroughly that when I looked upon the ground I could see nothing but the snow rushing past and the bushes demarcating the road. And when we came into the crossing, there was a rock or an incursion of some sort on the ground that tore through my chariot wheel and I was thrown to the ground.” 

Silently, the Craftsman listened to his tale, and he realized that if he wanted the Nobleman to leave as soon as possible, he would have to right his chariot and send him on his way as politely as he could. Though, the Nobleman must have known the Craftsman would have the skill to assist him in his plight, and he could not muster any effort into the why or how this strange man seemed to know this. Finally, he looked up and into the face of his guest, and it shook him, for a moment, how effortlessly this Nobleman blended into the calm lake the Craftsman considered his house without making any ripples or waves. He was like the graceful swans that would come each spring, gliding separately and softly upon the surface, yet a part of the nature in his own way. 

Jarred, the Craftsman resolved to escort this Nobleman away from his haven as quickly as possible so as to be rid of his beguiling atmosphere. Surely this would be detrimental to his health, and do not the priestly men preach of the importance of class between men? He must not fraternize further with this man, he has already done himself a disfavor, no need to do the same to an honorable man such as his guest must be. 

“I believe I may be of service in that respect, sir, I, well, I am a craftsman, as well you know. I have seen and fixed many a chariot, and though it may be the dead of night and winter too, I have not yet come across something broken I could not repair.”

The Nobleman smiled, as best he could tell with his eyes averted, and reached his hand forth to grasp the Craftsman’s in good will. Surprised, he found his hand moving without the consent of his mind to clasp hands with this odd man. His hands were soft, softer than he had known any other hands to be. Surely not his fathers, not the women that haunt the brothel, nor the mother who left him with but a memory. Truly and odd man, he was.

They trekked out once more, leaving the dogs by the fire to stay warm as they braced the frigid weather so the Craftsman could assess the situation. Once they reached the lone chariot, he realized it would be a relatively simple fix, and said so, to the apparent relief of the Nobleman. He returned for his tools and to let the hounds out so that they might realize they would be leaving and be used to the weather before they depart. He grabs another coat for the chill, and, without thinking, a blanket for the stranger to ease his way. 

When the Craftsman returns and sets about fixing the chariot, he reaches down to grasp the wheel with the whole of his hand, only to retch it back when he gets a shock of white hot pain. The wheel falls down on its side, and he finally sees the large nail sticking out of the bridge. Quickly, the Nobleman takes his hand and shoves it into the snow. The pain of the cold and the sting of his injury make him jerk against the hold the Nobleman has on his wrist, but he holds firm. Long after the Craftsman’s hand has gone numb and he fears it has frozen off entirely at the wrist, the Nobleman gently removes it from its snow prison, and wraps it reverently with a handkerchief he procured somewhere form his person. 

After his wound has been dressed, the Craftsman goes to take his hand away, before the Nobleman tightens his grip once more. Confused, he focused his gaze back upon where they are joined. Knees brushing, fingers intermingling, breath shared. The Nobleman has begun massaging his fingers, now bearing a slightly blueish hue, and brought his cradled hands to his mouth to blow hot air into them. When he finally releases him, the Craftsman feels more adrift without his grounding touch, and finds he craves it. In a sudden need to distract himself from such heathenous urges, he sets to the task of fixing the chariot. 

The wheel is righted, the screws are tightened, and the Nobleman smiles when he checks the rest of the chariot and fiddles some more so that it shouldn’t fall apart once again. He feels a surge of something at the sight of his blood upon the chariot wheels, his Nobleman is marked, and only he should know of it. The Craftsman’s cheeks heat again when he realizes his actions and sees the Nobleman’s smile. Oh, curses. Sheepishly, he gives the Nobleman the blanket he had grasped in his haste, and turns away quickly as though to dismiss the gesture and its intent. He harrumphes and coughs, announcing his work finished and the chariot fit for riding once more. 

“But be careful, it is not wise to hunt in this cold and when it is snowing. You’ll find nothing but scrawny rabbits and squirrels, if needs must there is always the butcher and the brothel, they have surplus for their patrons.”

The Nobleman seems to have a gleam in his eye, and the Craftsman meets his eyes for the first time, in curiosity. They are the richest, deepest auburn. If the Craftsman were to turn his head just so, they would shine red, he is sure. But he does not. He is rooted to the spot, and no force by God or man could move him in this moment, so enchanted is he. 

It seems fit that the Nobleman himself breaks his reverie, as he has proven himself to be neither human nor heaven bound over the course of the night. The Nobleman reaches into his pocket, and produces...a handful of wood chips? He must have picked them up while the Craftsman worked, and he presents them to him with the upmost seriousness. 

“As thanks for your diligence.”

The Craftsman knows his utter confusion must show upon his face. He may have woken not an hour previous, but he is sure the wood chips are worthless.

As though he read the Craftsman’s mind, the Nobleman reaches for his uninjured hand, turns it up wards, and presses the wood chips into his palm before closing it and squeezing it with both hands. And then, to his shock, the Nobleman bends down, and reverently kisses his knuckles as though he were a maiden to be courted. He feels as though he may faint as soon as swoon.

“My dear, though they might not look much, they are worth more than they appear. Only for the sun to rise might you see them clearly for what they are truly worth. Just as I can see your exquisiteness in the dim of the winter, I am sure it would be amplified in the light of spring.”

Frozen still, the Craftsman nods dumbly, and finds he can do nothing as the Nobleman stands to rights, and reaches down to softly murmur pleasantries to his hounds and pets their scruffs gently. He stops, and crouches fully to greet the Craftsman’s dog. He whispers something to him, and with all seriousness turns his head to the dogs snout, as though to listen to his answer intently. He seems to be shocked by the whatever the dog had answered him with, and once more he smiles when the dog licks his nose. 

Giving him one last pet, and a long, heated look to the Craftsman that leaves him trembling, he turns, and mounts his chariot. Clicking his tongue, he speeds off and disappears into the night. 

And it was as he watched the Nobleman ride into the white fog and thick snow, that he realized he had not asked for his name. Now gone, like a specter in the night, with nothing but the wood chips cutting into his palm to remind him the man was real.

He does not remember walking back to his cottage. He does not remember closing the door, or stamping his boots and shaking his coat. 

He does, however, come back to himself when he sits down heavily by the fire. He does not set down his reward, as much as he simply opens his palm and rubs his face with his hands wearily. A fool, a fool, a fool he is. He can still feel the ghost of soft lips and softer hands upon his own.

Grateful, he was. Yes, indeed, he was grateful, surely. To be rid of the odd Nobleman with his hair that shone gold like the sun, his face like that of bright rays piercing through the Craftsman’s frosty disposition. The Craftsman thinks that when the sun finally does return to melt the snow of winter, he will be disappointed that it does not have hounds abound and warm laughs that heat him through to the core. 

The fire has dimmed and the chill seeps in from the outside. Something small and helpless in his chest cries out at the knowledge that the one tangible trace the Nobleman left in his house is dying. He leans over to reach for a blanket, and to distract himself from running into the night after his Nobleman or shoving his hands into the hot coals, and laughs to himself when he grasps the empty air. Truly a madman he has become, the cursed Nobleman stripping him of his sanity and his caution so effortlessly. Shivering, trembling, he only realizes that he is weeping when his dog whimpers and licks the wet tracks from his cheeks. Oh truly a madman he has become, truly, truly. 

He falls asleep in that same chair, staring at the empty spaces the Nobleman inhabited with the echoes of hounds howling in his ears.

.—.—.

When the Craftsman finally wakes, the fire has long died. He shuts his eyes against the meager light shining through his windows. 

As he goes to rise and start the tedious chores of the day, he hears something hard clatter and hit the floor.

_Crack, crack, crack_

Mystified, he looks down, and rubs his eyes in shock. One, two, three, four, - a handfuls worth of gold coins. No, gold **shavings**. Scattered across his floor, among hound hair and whiskey stains alike.

He laughs. 

Oh truly an odd, beautiful, wretched man that Nobleman must be. 

(EPILOGUE)  
When Will unravels the handkerchief once more to press it to his nose and get a whiff of his Nobleman, he sees a small embroidered H.L. in the corner and leaves that very night to seek a Lord with a name befitting H.L. 

He is spirited away by the hunt, to live the rest of his life with his newfound love. They are married on the eve of their first meeting, and are never to be seen again. 

Though, some of those who knew the Craftsman as he was human would swear to you they could hear his laughter in the bleak of a winter’s night, when the wind howls so violently that one may mistake it for hounds.

**Author's Note:**

> Also! Winston was a member of Hannibal’s hounds. He was left at Wills doorstep to cause mischief and possibly curse him because Hannibal was having a bad christmas and he wanted everyone else to suffer. That is also a mythos thing, I highly recommend doing your own investigating because it’s so interesting!!!
> 
> How was it? Let me know! ☺️💖
> 
> Your comments lead an eternal hunt throughout the woods in the dead of night. Your kudos play with 24 hounds who love and adore you forever because they are immortal!


End file.
